


intertwined contrasts in temperature

by livtontea



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Hands, M/M, No Beta, No Plot/Plotless, author doesn't have a hand kink and whoever said otherwise is a liar, hinted domestic bliss, mild prose, shakespeare cameo /j
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25170316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livtontea/pseuds/livtontea
Summary: Baz has violinist’s hands.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	intertwined contrasts in temperature

**Author's Note:**

> i should say that i dont play violin anymore and don't actually know what violinist's hands look like outside of my vague notions from 3rd grade. you've been warned, continue

Baz has violinist’s hands. His fingers are long, slim, callused. Mine are callused too, in different places—my palms are rough and dry. His palms are smooth. They’re dry too, but not like mine are; his are dry as in not-sweaty, not flaking and battered.

They’re violinist’s hands. Smooth and refined. Penny told me about how she went to the ocean once, where the beach was littered with rocks and pebbles. She brought back a stone with a hole through the middle, smooth and water-polished. It was cold and it fit in the dip at the center of my hand.

Baz’s hands are more… delicate than mine, I guess. They’re not dainty, but they’re not made—not trained—for killing. When he plays his violin he gets this look on his face like he’s exactly _here,_ in the right then, but also hundreds of miles away… and his hands hold the bow firmly but carefully, the wood contrasting with his skin.

His hands are paler than mine, especially near the wrist and the back of his hand, where the skin is thinner. The veins beneath his skin are blue and carefully wind around his flesh from beneath.

Baz’s fingers are thinner than mine, tapering off into dull points. Mine are blunt and round, like they were chopped off and then healed over.

I slip my hand in his and tangle our fingers together. He looks up from his book, Shakespeare, and gives me a look—one eyebrow raised, eyelids dropped, but a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s his _what are you doing_ look, pleasantly curious.

“You have cold hands,” I say, brushing my thumb across his.

He snorts. “I know. I’m dead, remember?”

“Not dead,” I say, “just cold.”

Baz rolls his eyes and turns back to his book, keeping it in place with the hand that I’m not holding on to. It’s resting on my legs, which are thrown over his, and it’s so… nice. Warm. Not temperature-warm, feelings-warm; warm on the inside. He flips a page and I raise his hand to my lips to kiss his knuckles.

“Snow,” he laughs, “what are you doing?”

“You called me Simon before,” I say, and kiss the bone in his wrist.

“Simon, then,” he agrees, “what’s gotten into you?”

“Your hands are cold,” I tell him again. “I’m warming them up for you.”

He rolls his eyes again, squeezes his violinist fingers around mine, for a split second, and leans into me, turning back to his book.

“Well then,” he says, “I suppose I’m alright with that.”

“Good,” I say, and let him get back to his reading. One-handed.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are appreciated! im on tumblr @bahumdrum :) ty for reading lol


End file.
